Right Kind of Wrong
by hondagirl
Summary: Because he just might be the right kind of wrong I need. -Rose/Scorpius- ONESHOT


**Disclaimer**: If I were JK Rowling, it would not have taken Ron and Hermione 3000 plus pages and 7 books before they finally kissed.

**Note:** Before you begin, please keep in mind that this story does not take place in one day. Instead it is split into sections, with each section taking place at a different time and on a different day. Inspiration for the first few opening lines comes from Kioko's James/Lily fic, 'The Incident in the Library', which I strongly urge everyone to go read and review.

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**Right Kind of Wrong**

"_Go to your bosom;_

_Knock there and ask your heart what it doth know."_

_-William Shakespeare_

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His shirt is unbuttoned.

It shouldn't bother me. It doesn't bother me. It didn't bother me ten minutes ago when he first walked into the library –actually _strolled_ in I must admit- and it doesn't bother me now.

But he's just sitting there, his shirt tails un-tucked, his sleeves rolled up to expose tanned forearms and his top two buttons undone, revealing a hint of dusty blond hair on his chest. How in Merlin's beard am I supposed to concentrate on my schoolwork when he's purposely sprawled with casual elegance in a deep chair, directly in my line of vision?

How anyone can look so relaxed and attractively inviting in a library is beyond my comprehension. But if anyone could do the impossible, it would be Scorpius Malfoy.

Damn! He's walking towards me, his features rearranged into a smirk that spells trouble. Only a Malfoy can manage to look that angelic and devilish at the same time.

"Weasley." My back stiffens in a valiant attempt to control the thrill that runs through my body at the sound of his voice. He slips into the seat across from me, his movements as fluid and as graceful as a cat. Against my better judgment, I find my gaze wandering to his exposed chest, unable to resist its magnetic pull.

I look up in time to catch his slowly stretching grin. I berate myself inwardly. How am I supposed to convince him to leave me alone when my body contradicts my own words?

"Malfoy, what do you want?" I sigh, angry at myself for what I'm feeling, angry at him for making me feel that way.

His lipid grey eyes twinkle laughingly at me as his smirk grows even wider –something I did not think humanely possible. He sets his elbows on the table and leans across, his face stopping only mere inches from mine.

"What do I want?" His warm breath tickles my face and sends me into a state of shivers. I resist the innate urge to close my eyes and just _feel_. Instead I content myself with staring at his long eyelashes, cursing the heavens above for wasting eyelashes like those on a mere male –even if he _is_ a perfect specimen of a man.

Wait. Did I just think he's perfect? This is not good. Quickly, I scoot my chair back, anxious to get away from him, anxious to quell the pounding in my blood, anxious to get my typically Granger rational thoughts back. He stares at me and grins, while I think up a dozen curses that could permanently disfigure his face –he knows exactly what he is doing to me.

"What do I want Weasley? Well….. I want a lot of things," he tilts his heads back as if contemplating and then gives me one more searing look. "But currently, all I want is a quill."

"A quill?" My voice comes out squeaky as my face betrays my confusion. He smiles softly –something I did not think he was capable of- and in one quick movement brings his hand across the table to gently cup my face. Trailing one finger fluidly down my cheek, he nods gently, "At the moment, that's all I want."

My heart starts to hammer against my chest –curse that traitorous organ! I manage to reach into my bag and pull out a quill. His finger continues to softly caress my cheek as he uses his other hand to grab the quill, his hand deliberately resting on mine a mite moment longer then necessary, causing a trail of Goosebumps to appear on my exposed flesh. Never taking his eyes off mine he leans back in his chair; enormously pleased with himself and my reaction to him.

My breath hitches in my throat as I grow very aware of my own body and Malfoy's close proximity to it. His grey eyes glitter dangerously as his hand slowly leaves my face. My breath comes out in short spurts as he continues to look at me, with that stupid knowing glint of his in his eyes.

He leans closer once more, his eyes darkening. My heart starts to thump even more wildly. This cannot be happening. I cannot be feeling this –not for him. Suddenly, an overwhelming feeling of panic assaults me and I do the only thing that seems right –I run.

Ignoring the stares of others in the library and the urge to look back, I streak past a few armchairs and tables before finally reaching the door. Barely ten minutes go by until I'm back in my dormitory, ten minutes before my nerves start to calm down, ten minutes before my blood starts to cool.

I cannot be feeling this - these panicking, wonderfully wrong feelings - for _him_. He is a Malfoy, I am a Weasley. He's supposed to hate me and I'm supposed to hate him. It's a role we were destined to from birth. He's as wrong for me as I am for him. I did the right thing. I did the right thing. But a nagging feeling of regret lingers just the same.

Because he just might be the right kind of wrong I need.

……

"You study too much."

My skin starts to tingle as his familiar voice washes over me, engulfing me in its velvety embrace. I don't look up. I am determined to be strong. I am determined not to be affected by him. I succeed –until he sits down next to me.

For the love of Circe! I look up, not surprised to meet mocking grey orbs staring back at me, a knowing smile twitching at his lips. I look back at my work, willing myself and my body to plead ignorance to him –quite difficult to do as his thigh is now pressed against my thigh, his shoulder intimately touching mine. Drat! If only the alcoves weren't so small and concave, if only Hogwarts had bigger –and better- hiding places. I shake my head, resolving never to study here again, resolving myself to deal with him once and for all.

"Clear off Malfoy. Go wander someplace else for awhile. Or better yet, if I'm exceptionally lucky, go fall off the face of earth altogether. It would sure make my day." But even to myself, my words ring false. They don't quite have the same note of steel, the same undertone, the same underlining threat that they might have had years, months, even mere weeks ago. And judging from the look on Malfoy's face, he thinks so too.

"I can't do that Weasley." He leans dangerously closer to me, so close that his breath fans my cheeks as he speaks, "You might miss me too much."

Suddenly, I gasp. And it is not from his words or the sincere way he says them –which is a startling conception in itself. It's from his fingers. On my back. Slowly rubbing comforting circles up and down, up and down. My entire body freezes as he continues his exquisite massage, making the muscles of my lower abdomen clench.

All of a sudden, I'm aware of our uncomfortably close proximity, our secluded alcove, his body pressed intimately against mine while he continues his slow seduction. Because knowing him, this is exactly that. Unconsciously, I bite my lower lip to restrain a moan of pleasure from escaping my lips. I seem unable to ignore the way his gaze drops to my mouth at the sound. It's a moment before he looks away, a moment during which my heart thumps uncontrollably against my chest, partly robbing me of breath.

He looks back into my eyes, his gaze both serious and penetrating. He raises his hand, softly brushing the back of his knuckles across my face before he speaks. "See, I told you you'd miss me."

If I were a lesser woman I would be drowning in a pool of ecstasy right now. If I were a lesser woman, I would be incoherent at the moment. Bollocks!!

I jump up, mistakenly colliding with his tall frame but nevertheless managing to break away from his gaze, from his touch, from his spell. I walk a few feet away, running my fingers through my matted hair as I struggle to breathe.

"Please, stop," I manage to get out after an excruciating ten seconds.

His glittering eyes skim my figure slowly, almost unrecognizably, before meandering back up to my face. "Stop what?" he asks distractedly, an unreadable expression on his face.

I fight back the urge to retort angrily at his devilishly fake innocence–I cannot deal with that right now. Instead, I thrust a hand out to indicate him, me, realizing as I do so that there should be no such thing - him, me. That's the whole problem here. "This… us," I manage to utter.

"Us?" Malfoy rises from his perch and wanders over to me, stopping just a few feet away. "There's an us?"

My heart hammers in my throat as our gazes lock. I search his eyes, unable to move. For once, all traces of humor and mirth are gone from his face, replaced with utmost sincerity. His gaze never wavers from mine and I stare back, knowing my eyes are like a window to the swirl of emotions within me. But it's not as if I can hide them from him anyways. He knows me all to well.

I want him. But I'm not supposed to. I'm not allowed to. It's all so disturbingly twisted it's tearing me up inside. And then he moves towards me. And now he's touching me, his thumb tracing my jaw line, his other hand coming to rest on my waist. And want and desire are clouding my senses, because his head inclines towards me and then he pauses, a tantalizing fraction away from my lips.

I can't think clearly. I can't focus. _I can't breathe_. I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for _him_.

Not yet. So I run. As fast as I possibly can.

I feel like a traitor to my own bloodline. I feel like a traitor to the Weasley family name. But then a stronger feeling overtakes me –betrayal to my own body.

Because he just might be the right kind of wrong that I need.

...

I stare idly at the dying embers, watching the once flickering flames grow dim. The common room is empty around me as I wrap my arms more tightly around my legs, resting my chin on my kneecaps. I stare aimlessly at the fire, dreaming, wishing, but most of all just thinking. When the hairs on the back of my neck prickle I don't budge even an inch because, subconsciously, I know who it is –only one boy in the world has that effect on me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask without turning around, not even bothering to find out how he got into a common room that isn't his. After all, it's Malfoy, he probably charmed the portrait with his smile to get in.

"You weren't at dinner."

It's a statement, not a question, and for some reason -against my will I might add- it pleases me that he noticed. I keep my gaze focused on the fire as he settles on the floor next to me. I can't help but let a shiver of anticipation run through me at his nearness, hoping desperately that he doesn't notice. But the ever observant Malfoy notices- of course he notices.

Then, in a move so quick that it astounds me, he grabs a blanket from the chair nearest him and wraps it around my shoulders, obviously taking my noticeable chill for coldness. As his warm hands settle on my shoulders, a jolt of emotional electricity runs through my body and he freezes, the air crackling with a tense silence. When it's obvious I am not going to deny anything –what's the point anymore- he settles next to me, scooting his body closer to mine, all the while keeping his hands on me.

I loosen my hands to grab the blanket as I let my legs stretch out in front of me. His body presses comfortably against mine as he removes one hand and throws the other arm over my shoulders in a way that makes it easy for me to rest my head on his shoulder. And I do.

I am not sure why I did it, but I did. And after a split second of shock –I can feel his body freeze at my unforeseen movement- he moves his shoulder slightly back, letting my head fall into a more comfortable resting place, his arm tightening around me, pulling me closer to him. I feel all my curves pressed against his hard lines, and it feels _right._

His skin is warm, radiating heat onto my colder body as I listen to the slow, steady beat of his heart. Even though my stomach is turning into a bundle of knots at his closeness, a strong feeling of content overtakes me, leaving me too weak to protest against our close proximity. We sit in a comfortable silence for awhile, broken only by the sound of the hissing flames.

"Weasley?" I can feel his chest rumble against me as he speaks.

"Hmm??" I grunt at him, too drowsy and incoherent and _peaceful_ to actually form words, or sentences for that matter.

He pauses briefly, perhaps thinking over my response - or lack thereof. Then, in a voice stripped of its usually laughter, he says, "You know you can't fight this forever right?"

I jerk my head back and turn to look at him, my eyes full of awareness. As I meet his intense gaze I realize with a shock that he is right. I can't fight this forever. Hell, I'm not even sure I want to anymore.

I nod my head ever so slightly as I ask him, "Well, what am I supposed to do about that?"

His arms encircle my waist as I stare blindly back at him, trying to memorize his face in the firelight. My heart starts to beat erratically as his fingers proceed to rub finger-light circles on the small of my back. He brings his head towards me and whispers softly, "Rose, in about ten seconds I'm going to kiss you."

Somewhere in the recess of my mind, the fact that he has just used my name for the first time dawns on me, but, understandably, I can't seem to dwell on that at the moment, because his voice goes lower and, if possible, even more seductive. "And if you don't want me too, I won't." I look despairingly into his eyes as my mouth goes dry. His grip tightens around me. "All you have to do is tell me to stop." He inclines his head slowly until his lips are just a fraction of an inch from me. I can feel his warm breath wash over mine. "Tell me to stop, Rose. Please." He says the last word almost begging, as his mouth stills just above mine.

But I can't. My breath hitches in my throat and the nerves on my back are on fire as he continues to touch me. And suddenly, it seems like everything in my life has built up to this moment. And I can't tell him to stop. _I just can't._

His mouth slides slowly over mine as my fingers come up to entwine in his hair. His hands slip up my back and he pulls me tighter to him. Then, he envelops me in the most devastating, intoxicating, wonderful kiss I have ever had. And as our lips and mouths melt together; tongues tangling, sliding, caressing, our surnames cease to exist - at least for the moment.

Because he is exactly the right kind of wrong I need.

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**Note 2: **Before you go, please remember to leave a review. If you add this to your favorites list please, just take a moment to review. Even if it's just a word or two, it would make my day. Thank you so much!


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